Coincidence
by snooky-9093
Summary: Chief Superintendent Foyle doesn't believe in coincidence. But several years after he crosses paths with two London crooks, he receives an odd assignment from SOE handler Hilda Pierce. 2020 PBA: Gold-best crossover; Gold best visiting crossover characters (Foyle). nominated for best portrayal of Canon Extra: Alfie Burke.
1. Chapter 1

_I'd like to thank Jinzle, L.E. Wigman for their advice; especially since it's been a while since I've seen Foyle's War. Thank you so much for reading and for taking the time to comment on the story and the characterizations. And thank you to Abracadebra, who proofed, offered editing suggestions and comments. I'm grateful for your time and effort, especially at the last minute during this busy time of the year._

_Coincidence_

_Chapter One_

Peter Newkirk took a seat on a bench on the crowded Hastings pier. He crossed his legs and leaned back, nonchalantly throwing his right arm over the back as he gazed at the summer crowd. He remained in this position for about five minutes and then opened up the newspaper beside him.

No one passing by the young Cockney would have given him a second glance; No one except the slightly built older man leaning against a building. The two men exchanged an imperceptible nod, and then Peter rose. Leaving the paper on the bench and grabbing a small folding table leaning against the armrest, he walked over to an empty space located between a fun house and an ice cream stand. He threw his hat on the ground, unfolded the table and then removed a deck of cards from his pocket. With one hand, he skillfully began shuffling. The cards moved like waves upon a lake, rising and undulating in a smooth motion. Slowly, a crowd began to gather to watch the master of eye-hand coordination manipulate the deck. As soon as curious onlookers surrounded the table, Peter began to talk.

"Who wants to see some magic, then?"

"I do, Mister!" A young boy of perhaps seven or eight pushed his way towards the table.

Peter looked down at the lad, and without warning reached behind the boy's ear.

"Is this yours?" he asked, showing a farthing.

The boy giggled. "No."

"Well, I don't know where that came from. 'Ere's the deal. You can 'ave it, if you help me out."

The boy turned his head, looking for his mum. She smiled and nodded. "Go ahead."

Peter fanned out the cards. "Pick one. Don't show it to me."

The boy chose a card.

"Show it to you mum, then?" Peter said. "And the crowd; then put it right back in here." He split the deck and pointed to the bottom half. The boy complied and Peter shuffled and reshuffled the deck. After a few seconds, he pulled out a card.

"Is this the one you picked?"

The boy's mouth hung open. "Yes, that's the one. How did you do that?"

"Practice." Peter smiled at the lad and then continued with a few more sleight of hand tricks. This continued for another half-hour. "I'll be back in a jif," he told the crowd, who then dispersed.

The older man approached. "You have them in the palm of your hand, lad."

Peter nodded at his mentor. "I still feel more comfortable at 'ome," he told him. "Too much open space and fresh air here."

"It's smart to change your surroundings. New possibilities, new marks."the man replied. He pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, offering one to Peter, and then taking one for himself. "Yes, new possibilities," he repeated. "Scotland Yard is starting to take notice. Here. Now that you have them in the palm of your hand, time to set up the next trick."

Peter put out his cigarette, grinned and flexed his fingers. He walked back over to the table, and took three walnut shells out of his pocket. "Who wants to play the shell game?"

"What's it about then?" asked a nearby man.

"Easy," Peter replied. He turned the shells upside down. "Look. Nothing in there. Now, I'll take this dried pea; put it under this shell…Watch…" Peter put the pea under the middle shell and began moving the pieces around the table. "'Ere, I'll give you one free try, guv'nor. Which one has the shell?"

"This one." The older man pointed at the shell on the right.

Peter lifted it up and the gathering crowd sighed in disappointment.

"I'd like to try again." The man held out some coins.

Peter took a coin. "Right you are. Let's give it another go, shall we? Watch closely and you might double your money."

The man bent down, concentration showing on his face.

Peter stopped. "Which one has the pea?"

"This one?" The man pointed to the one in the middle.

Peter turned it over, exposing the pea underneath. The crowd applauded. Peter grinned sheepishly. "Won fair and square." He handed the older man his winnings. The man smiled and then walked away.

"Righto. Who's next to try their luck?"

The older man walked towards the closest building, and hid around a corner. The plan was to head towards a meeting place in the village and wait for Peter. He peeked for a moment and smiled as he observed his protégé working the crowd. By the time he was finished with the shell game, the two would have quite a bit of money in their pockets. Ready to help them with their main reason for spending time in this seaside town. There were several wealthy families spending a holiday at one of the more exclusive hotels in the area. And when there was wealth, there was a hotel safe ready to crack.

Unbeknownst to Alfie Burke and Peter Newkirk, a few of Hastings' finest were also observing the shell game. They had been alerted by Scotland Yard that two of their wanted scam artists and burglars were headed their way.

"Should we put a stop to this?" asked one of his superior. He nodded his head and the police sting began.

After bilking three men, Peter shuddered; he had a sixth sense, and he had a niggling feeling that coppers were in the area. "That's all, gents." He quickly began folding up his table, as his marks protested.

Alfie spied the police heading their way; he looked at Peter and then realized he might be able to make a break for it. But, he couldn't leave Peter to face the police on his own. The lad was in enough trouble already. His hesitation cost him, and as he turned his head, there were two men coming around the other side of the building. He decided to head to the main area and see what would transpire. "I'm going to regret this," he muttered to himself.

In his haste, Peter initially forgot about his mentor. He left the table on the ground and took off walking at a fast pace. "Oh, blimey." Stopping, as he remembered Alfie was supposed to be heading to their meeting point in the village, he spied his friend drawing the police away from him. These were not the tight streets of the East End. This area was wide-open, and although they had familiarized themselves, Peter felt like a deer caught in the headlights. Now he didn't know what to do, and in his loyalty, he hesitated.

_HhHhH_

A knock on his office door interrupted Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle's battle with paperwork. Sighing, he placed the papers in a neat pile and put them off to the side. An officer opened the door at Foyle's invitation and entered the room.

"We've nabbed those two men London wanted, sir. No problems." The officer paused for a moment. "The young lad; gave his name as Peter Newkirk. He bears watching, sir. Talented magician."

"Very good." Foyle stood up. "Where are they now?"

"Sharing a cell," was the reply. "Shall we notify Scotland Yard?"

"I'll take care of it," Foyle replied. He was curious about these two. Alfie Burke was a known entity, but Foyle was interested in the thief's friend.

_HhHhH_

"I made a right mess of that," Peter was seated on one of the cots, pressed up against the wall of the cell, his knees drawn up to his chest. "Didn't know where to run. I hate these smaller towns."

"No, I botched it," Alfie was pacing the cell. How could this have happened? They cased the area multiple times; they even had an escape route planned. "Yes, it's all my fault. There was no reason to go to the beach. They must have known we were coming. That's the only reason. They were there waiting for us. We were shopped, lad. Someone at home."

Peter shrugged. "Doesn't matter now; does it? And you should have been long gone. That was the plan. You could have made it."

Alfie remained silent. He took a seat on the other cot. Hearing footsteps, both men stood up.

The detective in front of them was a middle-aged man, who did not appear too happy, considering his colleagues had just arrested a wanted safecracker and his protégé. He had an air of sadness about him that both Peter and Alfie noticed. What they could do with this observation, they did not know, but it was filed away, just in case.

"Christopher Foyle. Detective Chief Superintendent." He stood there, silently observing the two criminals. The older man appeared defiant, but there was also an impish quality to him. The younger imitated his elder. Defiant and stubborn. He had the pale, thin bearing of someone who grew up in the poverty and pollution of the East End of London. Foyle would say the lad needed a good home cooked meal and fresh air.

"He had nothing to do with this," Alfie blurted out. "I made him."

"Now wait." The younger man turned to his friend. "What do you think you're doing?"

Amused, Foyle stepped back.

"Trying to help you, lad. Now shut it."

"I make my own decisions," was the retort.

"You're both here to rob a hotel safe," Foyle calmly stated. "This is my town, and I don't take kindly to outsiders coming in and victimizing businesses and visitors."

"We had no intention of doing anything of the sort, sir." Alfie now turned on the charm. "We're just street performers, trying to make a little income off sightseers. Is that a crime?"

"They played willingly," Peter added for good measure. "I never pressed or forced anyone."

"You admit you ran a shell game?" Foyle asked.

"That's not what I said, guv'nor."

"Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle or sir, Mr. Newkirk. And now, I need to call Scotland Yard."

As he turned and walked away, Peter turned to Alfie and said, "My mum and da are going to have me hide."

Foyle sat at his desk and thought about the two Londoners he had behind bars. He grudgingly admitted some admiration for the two. It was their loyalty to one another that intrigued him. According to the arrest report, both had a chance to make a break for it, but hesitated. It was clear they waited for one another.

Alfie, now that he was caught, would go to prison. He was wanted throughout the country, mainly for complicated heists involving banks, hotel safes and the like. But Peter's record was minor. In another time or neighborhood, it was possible the boy would be living an honest life.

He drummed his fingers on the table and then decided to have a private conversation with Burke.

Peter gave Alfie a glance as the older man was led away from the cell. The safecracker offered a small wave and a nod of encouragement to Peter, who took a seat on one of the cots. Peter knew this wasn't the first time both of them were in hot water, and it would not be the last, he ventured. All he could do was wait.

Alfie was intrigued by the superintendent, who was polite, but not condescending. He took the seat in front of the desk and quietly waited for Foyle to make the first move.

"You can go," Foyle told the officer standing next to the door.

"I'll be right outside, sir." The officer left, closing the door behind him.

Alfie chuckled. "Surprised you would leave me alone in here, sir."

Foyle smiled. "Your record shows a reluctance to commit acts of violence. I doubt you would change at this stage of your life."

Alfie nodded in appreciation. "So, you're sending us back to London. It's a shame; I was beginning to enjoy the fresh air and your town's hospitality."

"I doubt that." Foyle leaned back in his chair. He paused for a moment. "Is Mr. Newkirk a friend or relative?" he asked.

"I'm sure you have it in your records." Alfie leaned back in his chair, mimicking Foyle.

"You're close." Foyle stood up and walked around the room. He went over to the file cabinet and wiped off a bit of dust with his finger. Turning, he said, "You feel responsible for him. I'll venture a guess that you taught him everything he knows."

"Well, I wouldn't say that. And what pray tell, do you think he knows, sir?"

"Oh, the ins and outs of breaking and entering. Gambling scams, pickpocketing, and how to slip away into the streets of London undetected. Multiple times. Lots of friends who are willing to hide the both of you."

A look of anger washed over Alfie's face. "I'm not an informant."

"No, I don't believe either of you are." Foyle looked at a file on the desk. "He is twenty-four. Just getting started. Could go away for a long time."

There was a long pause.

"Trying to help his family." Foyle stated. "It's a common thing."

"What do you want, sir?"

Foyle sat back down. "The question is not what I want, Mr. Burke. The question is what do you want?"

_HhHhH_

"Did he rake you over, mate?" Peter asked Alfie when he was brought back to the cell.

"He not that kind of copper, boy." Alfie plopped down on the cot.

"You're next, Mr. Newkirk." The sergeant kept the door to the cell open and waited for Peter to exit before locking it shut.

Peter looked at Alfie with a questioning expression. The safecracker's face was a blank slate, and Peter wondered what could have possibly transpired during the time they were apart.

Peter glanced around the room, examined his nails, fidgeted a bit in the chair and impatiently waited for the detective to make a move. This was a bother. Finally, Peter cleared his throat. "If you have nothing to say, I'd rather go back to the cell." He immediately realized he was being impertinent, but stubbornness kept him from issuing an apology.

"It seems, Mr. Newkirk, that you have a lot to say."

"Nothing to say to you lot." Peter crossed his arms and stared at the wall.

"You will both have a chance to enjoy our hospitality for the night. And then, tomorrow, you'll be sent back to London. We'll let them deal with you two. But, the evidence we found in your lodgings will be admissible."

This surprised Peter. "We aren't being held over for trial?" he asked.

"I could arrange that if you like," was Foyle's answer. "The room was in Mr. Burke's name, well, alias, I should say. You could be charged with a nuisance complaint, but no one will testify that they were cheated and the court feels it would be a waste of everyone's time and resources. On the other hand, Mr. Burke confessed to various complaints and he will be shown some leniency for that. The court has agreed to remand him to London for further investigation and sentencing. "

Peter slumped in his chair and rested his elbow on his arm. He stroked his hair for a moment while he let this news sink in. He knew what Alfie had done.

"And me, sir?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"You may do some time for various charges. You will be appointed counsel when you get back to London."

"If that's all, sir. I'd like to go back to the cell."

"Very well. Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Newkirk. Take this advice to heart. Mr. Burke sees something in you that others may not. You've chosen a path, but there is always a fork in the road. Choose the correct side."

Foyle walked over to the door and asked the officer to take the prisoner back to the cell. He watched as the two men headed for holding and then sighed. He made a mental note to check in with London to see what became of these two miscreants. One whose path was set, and would pay the price; the other who had a chance to redeem himself and hopefully find a way to have an honest life.

_HhHhH_

Peter walked into the cell and watched the officer close the door. He glared at Alfie and then plopped down on the remaining cot; lying down, and turning towards the wall.

Alfie stood up, walked over and placed his hand on Peter's shoulder.

"Take it off," Peter demanded. "I have nothing to say to you."

"I know why you're upset," Alfie responded as he backed away.

Peter turned over. "You know why I'm upset? You sold yourself down the river. What did you confess to? I thought we were in this together."

Alfie shrugged. "You have a chance to make something of yourself, lad. I have a charge sheet that looks like a scroll from the middle ages. You'll get a few months, if that."

Peter sat up. "We take care of each other. We don't snitch, but we don't take the rap either."

"Peter. I didn't teach you all you know. You had most of that figured out before we met. But if it wasn't for me and a few others, you'd be doing honest work. Giving your family a few extra shillings. Going home every night. I should have talked you out of our life."

"This is my life. My choice. Not yours. Not anyone else's. We were starving. We couldn't afford a doctor, much less a loaf of bread. You know that. Mum and Da. They tried, but it wasn't enough. I did give them a few extra shillings." Peter rose from the cot and paced. He couldn't look his mentor in the eye. Sacrifice wasn't a word in Peter's vocabulary. Not when someone did it for him. He sacrificed for others. His siblings, his parents. Even if it meant going to jail. He bit his lip and shook his head in frustration. Quietly, talking to himself, he added, "I like performing; that quick bit in the circus, that one time in the Palladium. Show business doesn't pay. It's too inconsistent."

"There's going to be a war coming. They're already looking for men to work in factories. You can check that out."

Peter huffed in indignation. "Can you see me doing factory work, inside, day after day?"

"It's steady, honest work." Alfie walked over to the cell door and wrapped his hands around the bars. "And your brothers and sisters will have an older brother to look up to. One that comes home every night."

Peter walked over to the door and stood next to Alfie. He looked down at the lock, one he could pick in a matter of seconds. "If there's a war coming, Alf, I'll be called up." He thought of his brothers and sisters; his mum and da, who years ago did their best to keep food on the table, saving the extra scraps for the younger children. His sister Mavis, now a young woman, who gave as good as she got, and who wasn't afraid to call her brother out multiple times for his choices. What would happen to all of them if a war started? He couldn't bear to think of the future. His da always told him, one day at a time, lad. One day at a time.

Still feeling betrayed, Peter looked at Alfie and said, "I'll think about it."

Three months later, Peter was released from prison. While there, he was constantly miserable, but he had plenty of time to think. Alfie was not located in the same jail, and Peter couldn't bear to visit his mentor, but he listened to Mavis and wrote Alfie a short letter.

_Alf,_

_I got three months. Mum was crying and Da was ready to have me guts for garters. He knew what I was and where the extra money came from. But that I was hooked up with your grandiose plans (his words). He couldn't bear to talk about it til now. I had to promise him I'd go straight. But I still have me skills. Before I got out, Da found me some work at a tailor shop, and I took to it straight away. You know I often helped Ma and Mavis with the mending. I'm a natural, they said. I managed to save up some money._

_Mavis and Leslie are learning to be nurses._

_I was too old to be called up. Never been a joiner, but I have a bad feeling about everything. One of me mates, you don't know him, and he's also with the settlement on Berner's street…He's volunteering for the RAF. And I think that's the way to go. We both look better in blue._

_I'm still cross at what you did. But, I'm not going to hold a grudge._

_Peter Newkirk._

_HhHhH_

A phone call from a London contact informed Foyle of Burke and Newkirk's sentences. He hoped the young lad would follow an honest path, but it wasn't a certainty. In any case, he wondered if the state of Europe would play a part in Newkirk's life and if the lad would somehow end up in service. As far as he was concerned, the cases were closed and their files were stored.

* * *

A/N: Hastings, the town where _Foyle's War_ takes place, is located on the South coast of England, approximately 50 miles SE of London. This is where the famous battle of Hastings happened. The current population is close to 93,000.

Alfie Burke appeared in the episode_ Safecracker Suite_.

The Bernard Baron Settlement(vii), 33 Berners Street (renamed Henriques Street), London E1. was the home of the the Oxford and St George's Settlement and of the congregation from 1929 until the Bernard Baron Settlement was sold in 1973. The Settlement housed the Oxford and St. Georges Clubs for Jewish youth and included some 125 rooms for sport, education, recreation and prayer. During the period prior to World War II, the congregation was one of the largest non-orthodox congregations in the UK.

www . jewishgen . org 


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter two_

_Late Spring, 1942_

Foyle stared at the plate on top of his desk. It was not the plate that was the problem. The problem was what was in the parfait dish centered on the plate.

"Sam, what is this?"

"A trifle, sir. Try it; it's ever so delicious."

Foyle's driver stood as straight as a board, her hands behind her back. She was shifting her weight back and forth, ever so slightly.

Foyle sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Why?"

"Why what?" Sam asked. She tried to convey a look of innocence; but it was not working.

"This took a lot of ration coupons; are those real strawberries?"

"Yes, sir. From a garden. Aren't you pleased?"

"Sam, I'll be pleased when you tell me why you are plying me with food."

The MTC driver stepped forward. "I wanted to make you feel better. Ever since they finished the aerodrome and Captain Kiefer left; well, sir. You haven't been yourself."

"Ah. I see. I appreciate the gesture, but I do not want anyone using their ration coupons on my behalf. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir. I have some filing to do if you don't mind."

Foyle gave a wave. "Go."

Sam turned, walked to the door and let out a smile when she was out of sight.

Foyle got up and closed the door. He also let out a slight smile, and then went back to his desk and took a small bite of the trifle. He admitted that since Kiefer and his Corps of Engineers had completed the nearby aerodrome that he was feeling out of sorts. He and Kiefer had bonded over a shared love of fly fishing, and he missed spending time with the American.

But that was war. People came and went at regular intervals. Some were transferred; some were unfortunately casualties. B-17s were already flying into the completed camp, and support personnel were taking up residence in their new posting. He took another bite of the trifle. Kiefer mentioned to him that within a few days, the camp commander would be arriving and that Hastings would see a lot of new faces. Kiefer did not have a name, but he told Foyle that the new commander had been in England for a while, flying for the Eagle Squadron. Once the Americans entered the war, his attachment to the RAF ended and the major was promoted to colonel.

Unfortunately, Foyle realized, there was the risk that Hastings would become a popular target. He finished the trifle and continued work.

Two days passed and Foyle was in his office, immersed in a black market case, when he was interrupted by a tap at his open door.

"Sir, there is an American officer here to see you. The new commander at the aerodrome."

"Oh? Send him in."

"Right this way, sir."

Foyle came from around his desk and waited. A tall American with jet black hair entered the office and held out his hand.

"Colonel Robert Hogan, Detective Chief Superintendent."

"Christopher Foyle." He shook Hogan's hand and offered him a seat. "Can I get you anything to drink, Colonel Hogan?"

"No, thanks." Hogan glanced around the office and smiled at Foyle. "Please to meet you. I heard a bit about the department from Captain Kiefer."

"I'm surprised to see you here, Colonel. You must be busy; swamped I would say, with taking over the base, training, personnel and other things."

"We have a partnership, sir. Hastings and the base. I also have to meet with the town government, but I wanted to come here first. Your personnel may have a lot of contact with my personnel and I'd like to get off on the right foot."

Foyle paused, noticing that this colonel was younger than he anticipated. He was also fidgety; a surprise; after all, there was no plausible reason for Colonel Hogan to be nervous. And he was a pilot.

''Truthfully, I'm also putting off meeting with the politicians." Hogan chuckled.

"Duly noted." Foyle grinned. "So, what can we do to make this partnership work?"

After discussing a variety of subjects; curfews, military police, jurisdiction, and inevitably, fraternization, Foyle came out of the meeting intrigued by Hogan. There was an air of competence and intelligence within the officer. He was clearly taking the time to meet with those he had to work with; but Foyle did not form hasty conclusions about people, and the detective planned on reserving judgment. For now, Foyle would wait and see how the young, brash colonel handled both his command and his relationship with Hastings.

He was not the only person in the station intrigued by Hogan. Sam was infatuated.

"How old did he say he was, sir?"

"He did not." Foyle went back to his paperwork.

"Do you think we will have a chance to see the base in full operation?"

"That is a yes. We're invited for a tour next week. Right now they are busy training and getting everything sorted out."

"That sounds exciting." Sam stood there, waiting for orders. "It was rather nice of him to take time out of his busy schedule to visit with us personally."

Foyle put down his paperwork. "Sam."

"I'll be off, sir. Unless you need me for anything else. I do have some auto maintenance to take care of."

"Off you go." Foyle fully expected tongues to be wagging. He then surprised himself when he briefly wondered if Hogan enjoyed fly fishing.

_HhHhH_

There was no time at the moment for any recreational activities or leave. The base was running 24/7; flying both day and night practice missions. There were last minute repairs and upgrades to handle, and more personnel were arriving hourly.

Officers and enlisted men fell exhausted into their beds as soon as their shifts were over. Hogan was working nonstop, and he had little time to meet any of the townspeople, much less take advantage of what the town had to offer.

American personnel ate much better than the British residents. This was a familiar situation to Hogan and other base personnel who had spent more time on the island. He felt guilty over this disparity and decided to try and work out a way to donate any excess food to the local population. He knew there was a severe shortage of onions and he asked his adjutant to coordinate deliveries.

A quick meeting was called and Hogan, his aide, Major John Rifkin, Captain Richard Kellner, the head of medical, sat around a table in the mess discussing what if anything they could do to help the population.

"The rationing system seems to be working pretty well, Colonel. In fact, I think, for a lot of the population, the diet is healthier and they are eating better." Kellner pushed some papers over to Hogan. "I managed to get some information from the Food board during my last posting up north."

"I had no idea," Hogan stated. "All I've heard is grousing from a lot of the population."

"Well, people need to complain about something." Rifkin added. "Oh, by the way, the fish and chips place near the library is my choice."

"The complaints came more from the upper middle and upper class," Hogan recalled. "And when did you have time to get fish and chips in town?"

"I got here first," Rifkin answered. "Well, there is a severe shortage of onions. And we have some crates we can donate. Some cooked hams. But how do we decide who gets them?"

"The local board?" Hogan then snapped his fingers. "Wait. Check with the police superintendent. I trust him. He's coming today for a tour at 14:00." Hogan yawned. "Excuse me."

"You better get a full night's sleep, sir. Or I'll take you off duty."

"I have too much paperwork." Hogan sighed. "I hate paperwork. And the meeting is adjourned." He looked at the doctor. "I'll get some rest later, John. Let me know when our company arrives."

An excited Sam drove Foyle over to the base; the detective seemed lost in thought during the drive. Sam remained quiet, not an easy task, but as they approached the gate, she mumbled a quick, "We're here, sir."

Both of their names were on the list and they were waved through and given directions to the administrative building. The base was now all hustle and bustle. Support staff seemed to be everywhere and there was a constant flow of jeeps and maintenance vehicles going to and from the airfield. Some of the jeeps carried crews; it appeared they were practicing landings and takeoffs.

"Here's the building." Foyle pointed.

"Right." Sam parked the car and waited beside the vehicle as Foyle exited. They were met by an MP.

"We're expected." Foyle gave their names.

"Yes, sir. The colonel is expecting both of you." He looked at Sam. "Ma'am. Please come in."

"Um, the car?" Sam asked.

"It's fine there. Please follow me."

"I thought I'd be asked to either stay with the car or go to the mess and drink tea with clerks," Sam whispered to Foyle. This had happened more than once in the past.

They were ushered to a door that opened into an outer office. There were stacks of unopened crates and three desks in the room; one was occupied.

"Chief Superintendent Foyle and Miss Stewart. I'm Major John Rifkin. Colonel Hogan's adjutant. Welcome. Wait one second." He walked over to the closed door, gave a brief knock and opened it. The detectives are here, sir."

"Show them in."

Rifkin followed Foyle and Sam into Hogan's office. It was clear he was in the middle of unpacking; but they could see that maps and documents covered his desk.

"Welcome." Hogan put down a pencil and walked around to the front of his desk. He held out his hand. Detective. Miss Stewart, is it?"

"Yes, but I'm not a detective. I'm a driver with the transport corps; assigned to the police force," she said in one breath.

Hogan smiled. "The transport corps? I saw many of you in action during the Battle of Britain and the Blitz. Well, I'm so glad you took the time to come today. I know how busy you are."

"It looks like you're the ones who are busy," Foyle said.

"Ah. Yes. Well. It may look disorganized, but the vital people are all in the right place. We're ready." Hogan paused. "Let's get this show on the road."

Hogan personally escorted Foyle and Sam, and he kept a running commentary going throughout the entire tour. It was clear that he was proud of his base, and of those under his command. By the time the tour was completed, and the three of them headed over to the mess hall for a drink, Foyle was coming to believe that this airbase and by extension, Hastings, was in good hands.

"It's been a pleasure, Colonel. Thank you for your time."

"The same," Sam added quickly. "I usually don't get asked to come with; well, it's true, sir." Foyle had frowned and as Sam blurted out her defense, Hogan held back a chuckle.

"I couldn't leave you sitting my outer office, could I?"

"No, sir."

"I do have something I wanted to discuss with you." Hogan explained the offer of assistance and asked how best to handle the distribution.

"I will find the right outlet and person for you, Colonel Hogan. And we are most grateful."

Hogan nodded. "I do want to have another meeting; maybe next week, to discuss coordination with our MPs and public safety issues. We may need to get some more officials involved."

"I'll arrange it," Foyle replied.

"It's been a pleasure," Hogan said. "Miss Stewart."

Sam started the conversation as soon as they were clear of the entrance and heading back to town. "That went well, don't you think?"

"I do," Foyle agreed, wondering again if Hogan enjoyed fly fishing.

"He's quite impressive. And the other men on base definitely showed respect. Although, he's not exactly what I expected from a base commander. I thought he would be more formal. Haughty, even."

"He likes to talk as much as you do, Sam. He has a handle on things." Foyle replied. "You do know he went to West Point?"

"Oh. A career officer." Sam smiled. "I believe Hastings is lucky to have him."

Foyle looked at her. "Many of those young men you saw today may not survive the war."

"I know."

The two remained silent the rest of the ride back.

While Foyle had developed some respect for the colonel, the two men had limited contact over the next several weeks. They were kept busy with their duties, and Foyle and Hogan did not have the chance to further their relationship.

The detective was jolted one evening when Hogan showed up at his home one evening, unannounced, saying he was out for a stroll.

"Thought you could use this," Hogan said, handing Foyle a bottle of Scotch. "You've had your share of busy evenings thanks to my boys." Several successful missions were under Hogan's belt and celebrations had gotten a bit out of hand.

"Come in." Foyle, while shocked at the colonel's casual behavior, invited Hogan into his living room. This was the first time Hogan had been in Foyle's home, and he glanced at the photos. He knew that Foyle's son was in the RAF and that the Superintendent was a widower.

"It's nothing we couldn't handle. And the MP's were on their toes."

"Good." Hogan was normally adept at reading people, and he paused for a moment as he noticed that Foyle appeared slightly put off. He mentally chided himself for being too informal. "Is this a bad time?" he asked.

"No. No, it's not," Foyle replied. "I do hear congratulations are in order. A submarine pen?" Foyle opened up the bottle and poured two glasses.

"Yes." Hogan took a swig. "That is good."

"Is it common for commanders to go on all these missions?" Foyle asked.

"I'm a pilot first and foremost. Sometimes I hang back. It depends on the mission, and how many pilots or planes are grounded. What HQ says. Is it common for detective chief superintendents to go out in the field all the time?"

"Touché." Foyle held out his glass.

Hogan stifled a grin. He sensed a profound sadness or melancholy in the detective. Foyle was an honorable man, and Hogan found him interesting company. A change from the more outgoing and ebullient friends he had back at home and in England. It was hard getting too close to the men at camp, although he didn't hold back. You just never knew who wouldn't be at the next morning's debriefing. So far, they had been fairly lucky.

Hogan wasn't much of a fisherman. But, he and Foyle had other things in common. They both enjoyed literature and discussing this kept them occupied. Music was also a favorite topic.

"You play the drums?" Foyle asked in bewilderment. Hogan's constant hand motions now made sense.

"Yes. Since I was about knee-high. Drove my mother crazy." He laughed. "But it's also great for hand-eye coordination. I have a set in my office."

"That is something I'd like to see."

"Tell you what. Next time we have a camp dance, come on over. Bring Sam with you. And Sergeant; sorry, I forgot his name. I met him at the station."

"Milner."

"Yes. I'll take requests." Hogan looked at his watch. "I have to get going. I have an early call."

"Thank you for the bottle."

"You're welcome. And I'll let you know about the next dance. We're very busy, but they're great for morale."

"I won't forget," Foyle promised. Unfortunately, he never had the chance to hear Hogan play the drums.

_HhHhH_

Sam was in Foyle's office, seated in the chair, tears streaming down her face. The news that Hogan's plane was shot down came early that morning when Rifkin called the station. They had lost a great number of planes over Hamburg the previous day and there was no doubt that Hogan's plane crashed. There were signs of chutes, but returning crews could not be sure of the count. The base was in mourning and all passes to town were canceled. There were dozens of British girls now in mourning as well. The town was in shock.

"There's a chance the men were picked up and sent to POW camps," Foyle stated, although he knew that multiple planes exploded with no survivors. He kept that to himself.

Sam wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

"I know, sir. It could take days, weeks or months before they find out, isn't that right. Or maybe never."

"There's always hope." Foyle sighed and handed Sam a cup of tea.

It was over a month later when Foyle received a phone call from the new base commander.

"I see. Yes, that is great news. And how many others? Thank you very much. Do have an address?" Foyle jotted notes down on a piece of paper. "I'll notify the rest of the department. They'll be relieved to hear the news."

* * *

Captain Kiefer was with the Army Corps of Engineers. He was in charge of the unit that built the airfield. (March 1942) Kiefer and Foyle became friends and they both went fly-fishing together. (one of Foyle's main hobbies). _ Invasion_. Season 4, episode 1. He returned as a Major in the 5th season episode, _All Clear._


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3_

Foyle parked himself on a quiet bench near the deserted pier. He gazed out at the beach; almost forgetting how it looked before the war. Although the danger of invasion was long gone, the shoreline was protected; the barbed wire, mines and other warnings a sad reminder of the present.

A woman carrying a large satchel sat down next to him, and they nodded in recognition.

"I take it this is not a social visit," Foyle stated. This meeting was not welcome as the last time Foyle engaged with Hilda Pierce he was caught in the middle of a rivalry. The SOE and MI5 did not want to work together. Pierce represented the SOE and she was tough. It was impossible to turn her down.

It was cold and Foyle turned up his collar. Pierce seemed oblivious to the chill.

Pierce did not respond; she pulled a large envelope out of her bag and removed a file. Handing it to the detective, she asked, "Do you recall this man?"

Foyle opened the file. He went through the file several times, examining the ID photo; it was of a young RAF recruit. He put that aside and spent several more minutes reading the documentation.

The two remained silent for several moments, Pierce allowing the detective to think about the RAF soldier, and the history behind the name and the face.

"Yes," Foyle finally said. "He was arrested here in 1938. Along with his accomplice. Actually, he was the accomplice. The other man arrested was Alfie Burke."

"The master safecracker."

"That's correct."

"Burke is still in prison," Pierce stated.

"I see."

"Peter Newkirk is not."

"Obviously," Foyle replied. "According to this record, he was sentenced to three months and then after a time, he enlisted."

Pierce was silent for a moment; Foyle knew better than to continue the conversation. He patiently waited for her to say what she wanted.

"You recommended dropping charges when Mr. Newkirk was arrested here."

"It was a nuisance complaint. No one would testify against him."

"Yet, he was here with Mr. Burke; they were both under assumed names, and upon searching Mr. Burke's lodgings, the police found suspicious items; tools, and so on."

"As I recall; this was a while ago, you understand, and I don't have my files in front of me. We were alerted by Scotland Yard. Other towns along the train route were also alerted."

"To the possibility of a large heist at one of your hotels. An extremely wealthy individual from the continent was staying there. Somehow, someone in Scotland Yard got wind of this, and Burke was spotted at a train station."

"That's the gist of it, yes." Foyle pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his nose. The cold was making it run. There was silence as an older couple, bundled up against the weather, their coats and boots showing signs of wear, walked by.

Once they were out of earshot, the conversation continued.

"You did not come here to discuss an old police case, and a young man who apparently was able to turn his life around."

Pierce turned and looked at Foyle. "I want everything you know about Peter Newkirk. His demeanor; what he told you, his attitude. His skills. Why you were easy on him. Whom he associated with once out of prison."

Foyle bristled. "I wouldn't say I was easy on him."

Pierce ignored Foyle and continued. "Why Burke admitted to petty crimes he did not do. What was the bargain he made with you to get his protégé a lighter sentence, and why did he make this bargain?"

"That's a lot to ask."

"As quickly as possible."

"Why?"

"As quickly as possible, and be discreet. No one is to know why you are asking. I'm sure that is something you are able to accomplish." Pierce held out her hand. "I'll take back the file."

"I need some of this information."

"This is all you need." She passed Foyle a small envelope.

Foyle grudgingly handed back the file. He remained at the bench for another 20 minutes, then left and headed back to his office. He sat at his desk, Newkirk's old file open in front of him, and twiddled a pencil. Letting out a small breath, he stared at the paperwork. There was nothing extraordinary in there. Just a record of a young man, arrested on a nuisance charge, and remanded to London, where he was wanted for some minor miscellaneous crimes of pickpocketing and robbery.

Foyle began to write a report on a pad of paper. Although Newkirk was wanted for robbery, it was Burke who admitted to these crimes in exchange for Newkirk's sentence to be lessened and charges dropped. London agreed to the bargain, initially discussed in Foyle's office. Foyle sat back in his chair and tried to recall the events of over four years ago.

"_Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle. Peter Newkirk. Well, he fell into this. East End. Hard times and all. You understand?"_

"_Mr. Burke. Many have fallen on hard times. Most do not take up with criminal activities."_

_Burke leaned forward, crossing his arms on the desk. "Well, with a better role model; not meself, you see, Peter would probably have found another profession. He tried many things, Peter did. Ran away and joined the circus for a bit." Burke chuckled. "Made an honest attempt at working the tube, street corners. His parents tried, but they had their hands full." Burke didn't elaborate. "You see, sir. Peter feels responsible for everyone. It's his nature. He comes across different, of course."_

"_I see. Anything else?"_

"_I taught him a lot. But he's a natural." Burke stopped and refused to elaborate. "He needs another outlet."_

"_So, you don't want him to take up your mantle?" Foyle asked._

_Burke shook his head. "I'm an old man. He's young. He can turn his life around if he puts his mind to it. I'm sorry for dragging him along."_

"_He's facing charges in London."_

_Burke sat back in his chair, placing his hands on his knees. Foyle waited._

"_You're a patient man, Detective Chief Superintendent."_

_Foyle nodded. "I've got plenty of time."_

"_How about if I confess to, um, certain things. I'm going away, and there's nothin' to stop that. In exchange for erasing some of Peter's charges?"_

"_That's London's call," Foyle replied._

"_I'm a patient man as well," was Burke's reply._

As Foyle recalled from the conversation, Burke was a surrogate father of sorts to Peter. The family was poor and struggling, and Peter's father worked two jobs to try and feed his family. He was a decent man; but frequently absent. Peter's mother took in sewing, while caring for five children. Peter was the eldest, and by the time he was ten, he was often on the streets, feeling responsible for helping his parents and siblings as well. The local Hebrew society was overwhelmed. The Depression and refugees took a large bite out of their charitable coffers. Peter's history was all too common.

As it turned out, London did accept Burke's deal, and Newkirk was sent away for only three months.

He peered at the information given him by Pierce. There was nothing there; only his unit, his rank, serial number and next of kin were listed. He paused. His own file showed Peter's next of kin and address in London. If it was still standing. This intrigued him. Pierce did not make mistakes. As far as he was concerned, an invitation to do more digging was issued.

Pierce also did not directly forbid him to get help. She only told him to be discreet. He rose from his chair and went into the main area of the station. His driver Sam was there and she immediately stood up, acknowledging his presence.

"Milner?" Foyle asked.

"In booking," Sam replied.

"Both of you come to my office as soon as he's available."

Foyle then walked down to storage and removed several boxes of dead files; all from the year 1938. He went through them, removing files, and had someone bring them up to his office. He then slipped Newkirk's file back in.

Milner and Sam tapped on the door; Foyle waved them in and then told them to sit down.

"I have a project."

The two saw the boxes on the desk and let out groans.

"When I went out this morning, I met with Hilda Pierce," Foyle stated.

That garnered interest.

"I don't like the sound of that," Milner said. Sam nodded.

"Well, apparently whatever they are up to, it's important enough to have us look into some former guests of ours from back in 1938. One in particular. But, this goes no further than this room."

"Sir, why are you telling us this? You know how secretive and demanding they are."

"Sam, she didn't specifically forbid me to get help. She just told me to be discreet and no one is to know why we need this information and who requested it. She's always to the point."

"Likes to order people around," Milner added.

"So, what do we need to do?" Sam asked.

Foyle pointed at the box. "This is something that should be done anyway. It's not slow here right now, of course, but we'll use this as a cover. I've pulled files of arrests I'd like to track. Young men of draft age or a little older. Minor crimes. What happened after they were released or finished their sentence? How did the war impact their behavior? We can get a nice report written when this is all over. Send it up." He then reached into the box and pulled out Newkirk's file. "This is our main focus." He handed the report to Milner, who looked it over. Milner handed it to Sam. "Pierce gave us a bit of information. Newkirk entered the RAF. I already have something written about his relationship with Burke and his history, from Burke's viewpoint. This is a rush."

"So, how do we proceed?" Milner asked.

Foyle leaned back. "Delicately. And I'm open to suggestions."

Most of the arrest subjects were local. It would be a simple task to follow their progress and whether or not they left the area, or were in the service.

Those from out of the area were more of a problem. Sam went to work immediately making phone calls to other bureaus. She was able to complete research on several files fairly quickly.

Milner had to start from scratch because as far as everyone was concerned, there was no further information available on Newkirk. He called up the prison where Newkirk and a few other men served sentences and was told someone would call him back.

After waiting for a half-hour, one of the administrators called. "Peter Newkirk served three months and then went home, I suppose."

"Do you have a phone number?"

"No. There was no phone at that address. Not sure if it's been bombed out, but I doubt that they would have a telephone."

"I have no further information on Stack. Milton is still here. He was rearrested on a burglary charge four months ago. And Jackson was released in August '39. One of the guards is from his neighborhood. Found out Jackson did enlist. Went into the Navy."

"Thanks for your help."

"Good luck with your project."

Foyle decided the only recourse was to go to London. The three drove in early the next morning and headed right for the East End.

"Is there a chance, sir, that Peter was killed?"

"Not sure why they would be looking for his history if he were dead, Sam. But it's a possibility."

Foyle had his own thoughts on the matter. He surmised that Newkirk was being recruited for the SOE. The opposite theory was too painful to consider, and he saw nothing in Newkirk's background that would lead him to believe the lad was a fascist sympathizer. That, and his faith, of course.

As they wove their way around debris, craters, empty lots and the horrid effects of the Blitz and recent air raids, the three kept silent, lost in their own thoughts.

"It's terrible," Sam whispered.

"They've borne the brunt of it." Milner gazed at people walking around the neighborhood. It was late morning and foot traffic consisted mainly of housewives, some with children in tow, out to do daily shopping, and older citizens. Older children were in school, somewhere.

To their relief, Newkirk's last known address, a small block of flats, was still standing.

Milner headed out into the neighborhood, hoping to get some information from the locals. It was past 10 and the pubs were open. The three agreed to meet up again at 2 o'clock in front of Peter Robinson's on Oxford Street. Foyle and Sam headed to the flats, hoping to find someone at home.

There was no lobby to speak of; only a small vestibule with a door leading to a stairwell. The Newkirk apartment was on the second floor. After climbing the stairs, they headed down the hallway, which was a bit dark but clean.

Foyle knocked on the door.

They heard a woman's voice. And after a few moments, the door opened, revealing a middle-aged woman. Newkirk's mother, they gathered.

Foyle removed his hat. "Mrs. Newkirk?"

"Yes."

"We're from the police department in Hastings." He stopped as soon as he saw the woman's face turn pale.

"No bad news, ma'am, and no one is in trouble. We're following up on old cases."

The woman looked puzzled. "We have nothing to do with Hastings."

"Well, your son, Peter, was a…um…guest of ours."

"Do you have some form of identification?"

"My ID. And this is Miss Stewart."

Sam offered Mrs. Newkirk a smile.

She paused for a moment. "Come on in then. Mind the mess. I've got quite a bit of sewing to catch up on."

The two entered the apartment, which opened up into a small hallway. A kitchen was to the left, and a small living area was in the back. Foyle assumed two bedrooms were off the hall that was to the right of the living room. The toilet and bath was accessed from the kitchen. A large window in the living room faced the street; the curtains drawn open to let in natural light. The room was small but fairly tidy; there was a sewing machine on the wall to the right of the sofa and an ironing board set up in the middle of the room. A rack with clothes stood against the other wall, next to a bookshelf filled with books.

Both Foyle and Sam wondered how so many people fit into one flat.

"Can you tell me what this is about then?"

"Yes, we're updating old files and are tracking detainees who left and fortunately never returned. It's a war project actually." This was technically true, and Foyle did not mind embellishing a bit.

"We came to London today to check on four people," Sam elaborated. "Most of the other subjects were from our county."

"I see."

"This is all completely confidential. If you'd like to speak to my superior," Foyle offered.

"We don't have a phone."

"Yes. We would have rang, if you had one. We are sorry for the inconvenience. If you would rather not."

She looked at Sam and then at Foyle, who turned their attention to a photo in a frame placed prominently on the mantle above a small fireplace. Next to it was a menorah.

"Your family, Mrs. Newkirk?" Sam asked.

"Call me Hannah." She picked up the photo and brought it over to the sofa. "This is my husband, Jack. He's at work now. Finally, he's home every night. Used to work two to three jobs to make ends meet; when he could. And traveled for work." She sighed. "It's terrible isn't it? The war. And now we have plenty of work."

She continued. "Peter. He's the oldest. Mavis. Just turned 25 and Leslie. She's 23. They share a flat with several other girls. Both nurses," she said proudly. "David is my youngest. He's at school right now. And Norman is in the navy. I don't know where he is at the moment."

"Quite a job you've had, raising five children."

"We all do the best we can, Miss Stewart. And sometimes all we do is not enough."

"Peter?" Foyle was now one hundred percent sure that Newkirk was alive.

"Yes. Times were really bad. For all sorts of people." Her implication was left unsaid. "And Peter. He is so strong-willed. Stubborn. Comes across as gruff sometimes; but with a good heart. He just turned his goodness into something darker. Thought he was doing what was best. We had all sorts of trouble with him. Never violent, mind you. Just mischief at first. And that led to more trouble. And that last arrest." She shook her head and then pulled out a handkerchief, wiping her eyes. "I'm sorry; but that man was a bad influence."

"Alfie Burke, you mean?"

"Yes. Oh, my manners. Can I make you some tea?"

"No thank you. We have other visits to make."

"I understand. Well, I have to tell you, Mr. Foyle. Those three months locked up did him some good. Once he got out; and we were furious with him, but couldn't turn him out, you know. He did good honest work. Until he joined up."

"And where is he now?" Foyle asked.

"Oh, I thought you knew. He's in a POW camp." She got up and walked over to the bookcase. There was a box on the third shelf, which she removed. Bringing it over to the sofa, Hannah opened the lid, and removed some papers.

"He made corporal." She smiled. "Here's a photo." She handed it to Sam who then handed it to Foyle.

Sighing, Hannah said, "He got caught in France. Peter was a gunner and his unit was part of the BEF. They managed to hide out for a few months, and then collaborators turned them in."

"He's been in a camp for quite some time, then," Foyle stated.

"Yes. A Luft Stalag is what they call it. We write. I know he's received some of our letters. And a few care packages." She reached in and pulled out letters. Smiling, she said, "I know it must be horrid, but he's safe and out of the fighting. That's selfish, don't you think? But I can't help thinking that sometimes." She handed a few letters to Sam.

"Luft Stalag 13," Sam commented.

"Yes. I'm not sure where that is. Locations were blacked out."

"Hannah, I know his letters have gone through censors, but I have to ask you; has your son mentioned anything about his specific treatment? Because he is Jewish."

"I know what you're thinking, Mr. Foyle. There have been no problems. Peter had C of E on his tags. They were told to change it. And Newkirk is not exactly a Jewish name. It was anglicized when my husband came over. I can tell from his letters. A mother can read between the lines."

"I see. Well, we'd best be going. Thank you so much for your time and the information."

"You're welcome. I know who you are Mr. Foyle. Otherwise, I wouldn't have let you in. Peter spoke about you."

Foyle raised an eyebrow.

"I suppose he had some good things to say, then. I hope your other son stays safe." He tipped his hat and he and Sam left the building.

_HhHhH_

Milner was not having much luck. It was tough to strike up conversations with the locals that consisted of more than talking about the weather, football results and war news.

He left the pub and headed across the street from Newkirk's building, where he saw Sam and Foyle exit. He caught up with them before they entered the car.

"I have nothing yet," he told Foyle. I can head to some shops."

"We have quite a bit of information," Foyle replied. He updated Milner and then looked at his watch. "Sam and I will head out and check on the remaining names. Let's still meet at 2," he said.

"Right." Milner wished them good luck and walked across the street. Around the corner, a few shops remained open, and he decided to enter a local ironmongers and notions store and browse. The windows were broken but the proprietor had painted a large sign on the wood expressing his thoughts about the Jerries, and saying they were open.

Stock was low, but the store was still a jumble. The kind of jumble usually only known to the proprietor.

The owner, an older man in his 60's, sat on a stool behind the counter, reading a newspaper.

He looked up as a bell jingled.

"Help you with something?" he asked.

"No. But sometimes you don't know what you're looking for until you find it," Milner stated. He made sure to accentuate his limp, rubbing the area where the false leg met his stump.

"That's a fact." The man nodded and continued reading.

"Surprised to see you still standing," Milner said as he examined a shelf. "That and the flats across the street."

The man got off his stool and came out from the behind the counter.

"It's odd. I'll give you that. One of Jerry's bombs hit the buildings around the corner. It's like a tornado you hear about in America. One side is flattened and houses standing with no damage on the other." He shook his head.

"I'm sorry," Milner said. "I hope no one was killed."

"Most of us were in the shelters, but we lost a few. You're not from around here," he said as he eyed Milner.

"No. I was looking for a pub. An old friend of mine used to be a regular there. It's gone. The Pig and Whistle?"

"Gone since the Blitz," the man explained. "Your friend?"

"Joined the service. He's MIA. A lot of the men around here joined the same time. You know him? John Vick. He may have lived across the street in that building. At least he said he had some acquaintances over there."

"No."

"Never you mind. Do you have any sewing notions? I'm looking for my wife."

"This is all we've got." The proprietor took Milner over to a small rack.

"Ah. Now I remember. Peter something. Lots of brothers and sisters."

"Peter Newkirk?" The man asked. "That's his building around the corner."

Milner brightened. "Could be. Is he all right?"

"POW."

"Oh." Milner's face fell. "That's not good. Sorry to hear that."

"Peter will be okay. He's scrappy."

"So is John. We're hoping he was captured. He'll give Jerry a run for it."

"So will Peter. Hates the Jerries. Not just because he's Jewish, mind you. He's stubborn as an ox. Got in trouble for getting into a fight on Cable Street. You know about that?"

"Yes. It was all over the papers," Milner said. Inwardly he was ashamed of himself for falling for the propaganda and stereotypes.

"I'll take these, then." Milner put a few things on the counter and paid.

"Ta." After putting away the money and placing the goods in a small bag, he glanced down at Milner's leg.

"Norwegian campaign. Trondheim."

The man nodded. "Good luck to ya."

"The same."

Milner, feeling he had enough information and not wanting to spread any suspicion, left the building and headed for the West End.

The three discussed their findings on the drive home.

"I don't understand why Pierce didn't let you know that Newkirk was a POW," Sam mentioned as she wound her way around a pile of debris.

Foyle answered, "She had her reasons, I suppose. But, you're right. It doesn't make sense. She had to know we would eventually find out."

"It looks like this Newkirk did turn his life around. Nothing there to report." Milner stared out the window. It had taken them a bit longer to get out of London than they thought. He hoped they would be able to get back to Hastings before dark. Driving in the blackout was a dangerous venture, and pedestrian and vehicle accidents were common.

"Yes." Foyle agreed with Milner. He would have his report ready sometime tomorrow and he planned on contacting Pierce first thing in the morning.

Something was niggling at his memory. It had to do with the numbering of Newkirk's Stalag. He made a mental note to check as soon as he got back to the office in the morning.

Fortunately, the roads weren't busy and the three made it home before it got too dark.

The next morning, as Milner left to update the files on the other arrestees, Foyle opened his desk drawer. He pulled out a small address book and opened it. Checking an entry, he then put it away and sat back down in his chair. "Fancy that," he said to himself.

It was later that morning when Sam entered his office and asked him straight-out. "Sir, I just recalled something this morning."

"Does it have to do with Luft-Stalag 13?"

"Yes, sir. Coincidence?"

"I can't say. But, this is an interesting development, Sam. Keep it to yourself."

"Of course, sir."

The following day, Foyle went back to the bench near the pier and waited. After a short time, Pierce showed up and sat down next to him. It was a cloudy day, but a bit warmer than their previous meeting. More people were walking around this morning, so the conversation had to wait. Finally, there was no one in sight or earshot, and Foyle handed over a large envelope.

"My report is in there."

"Thank you. I take it you were discreet."

"You don't have to ask, but if you must know, we incorporated this into a project updating records from that period. Statistics should be interesting once we're done."

Pierce shrugged.

"You could have told us he was a POW."

"I knew you would have discovered that," Pierce answered. "So, quickly; tell me your opinion."

"Seems he's a decent chap that took a wrong turn and straightened his life out. His skills should serve him well in that POW camp," Foyle replied. He then turned to her. "I don't believe in coincidences." He then faced forward, awaiting her reply. Of course, it was possible nothing more would be said.

"What brings you to say that, Foyle?"

"We have an airbase nearby."

"I'm aware of that."

"Their first commander, Colonel Robert Hogan, was shot down. We only found out recently he survived and was taken prisoner."

"I'm glad to hear he is alive."

"He was not here too long, but I did respect him, and so did those under him." Foyle was getting tired of this dance, but he had to be patient and not push. "Newkirk is at the same POW camp. But, of course, you know already know that."

Pierce looked at Foyle directly. Her eyes bored into the man; this would make some uncomfortable, but Foyle, as usual, tired of her games, just stared back, his face impassive as stone.

She stood up. "That's interesting. Yes, right. Thank you for your assistance in this matter, Foyle. When I again need your services, I will be in touch."

She turned and walked away. Foyle leaned into the back of the bench and crossed one leg over the other, spreading his arms across the back in a comfortable pose.

"Yes, I'm sure you will," he muttered. "Coincidence, my arse. What's going on in that POW camp?"

* * *

There was a rivalry between the SOE and MI5. This rivalry and the practice of recruiting inexperienced upper class handlers led to many deaths of resistance members. Check the book list in the forums for recommendations.

Milner falls for fascist and anti-semitic propaganda in the episode, "The White Feather", (season 1, episode 2)

Battle of Cable Street: "The **Battle of Cable Street** was an event that took place in Cable Street and Whitechapel in the East End of London, on Sunday 4 October 1936. It was a clash between the Metropolitan Police, sent to protect a march by members of the British Union of Fascists[1] led by Oswald Mosley, and various anti-fascist demonstrators, including local anarchist, communist, Jewish and socialist groups.[2] The majority of both marchers and counter-protesters traveled into the area for this purpose." _Wikipedia_

Parts of the West End were heavily damaged in the Blitz. Many major department stores on Oxford Street were partially or totally destroyed. Peter Robinson's was still open at this time. It's a fascinating history; there are many images on line as well as articles available.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

The men of barracks two were in the hut, trying to keep warm. Many were reading; some were mending clothes. Newkirk was taking a nap on his bunk, while the Senior POW officer, Robert Hogan, was in his quarters immersed in paperwork. No rescue operations were scheduled as the weather was not suitable for flying. It was a welcome break, although two escapees from another camp were down below, waiting for the sub pickup. Their clothes and documents were ready. All they needed was a signal and they would be taken to the next stop on their escape line.

Everyone turned their attention to the door as it swung open. The sergeant of the guard gingerly walked across the threshold, holding items close to his chest.

"Mail call!" he squeaked as he held the items over his head. He was swarmed.

Hearing the noise, Hogan left his quarters. He grinned. "Take it easy on Schultz, guys. Back off." The men fell into line and Hogan sidled over to the man. "Sorry, Schultz." He brushed off the man's jacket. "They get excited. It's been a while."

"Colonel Hogan. I'm glad for the discipline. It's been missing."

Hogan had only been at the camp for three months, but morale and discipline had improved; although odd things were beginning to happen, a fact Schultz tried to ignore.

Hogan grabbed the letters. "Here, Carter. Hand these out."

The tech sergeant eagerly took on the task.

"Wait," Schultz said. "I have a package. You're lucky it got here so quickly. Like there's a guardian angel in the postal service." He opened the door, bent down and grabbed a small box. "For you, Colonel Hogan."

Hogan smiled. "That is a small miracle. I wonder who it's from. Thanks Schultz." He put the box on the table as Schultz left the hut. Cries of open it, Colonel, and who's it from, sir? Echoed throughout the room, as he approached the box.

He glanced at the return address and quickly opened it. "It's a care package from people in the town near my base. That's really nice."

He unfolded the letter accompanying the goods. "'_Relieved at the news you're alive.' _I'd say," he commented. "'From your friends at Hastings' police station. Detective Chief Superintendent, Christopher Foyle. Ah, other signatures, here. Sam." He grinned, "Milner."

Hearing this, Newkirk paled and slunk unnoticed back to his bunk.

"I can't believe this," he said to himself. "Small world doesn't cover it. The walls are bloody well closing in on me."

As Hogan was happily going through the items in the small package- he had every intention of sharing it with the rest of the hut-he noticed Newkirk's disappearance.

He walked over to Newkirk's bunk.

"Newkirk?"

The corporal quickly sat up from his prone position and stood. "Yes, sir?"

"At ease. You knew I was posted near Hastings."

"Yes, sir. You told us that when you first came."

"Right. Foyle's a good man."

"If you say so, sir."

Hogan thought for a moment. "Come over to the table, Newkirk." He gave the corporal a friendly squeeze on the shoulder. Nothing more was said.

_Blimey_, Newkirk wrote to his sister, Mavis, later that day_. "I've learned to expect the unexpected."_

Later on, when Hogan was alone in his quarters, he thought about Newkirk's reaction. The corporal's background was not a secret. He readily admitted to Hogan that he had engaged in some dishonest behavior, and that he had honed his skills on the streets. The colonel now suspected that Newkirk had a previous run-in with the Hastings police. Right now, with the operation in its infancy, trust was paramount, and accusing or pressing his men could backfire. Besides, London had cleared Newkirk and saw no need to mention anything further. Hogan decided to wait and see if the corporal would eventually open up and explain the connection.

Newkirk fought his own personal battle with himself over whether to let Hogan know about his connection to Hastings and Detective Foyle. So far, Hogan had given the corporal no reason to doubt his loyalty to the men he commanded. The corporal stewed for a short time and then waited until Hogan was working in his quarters and the rest of the hut was empty.

Newkirk poked his head through the open door. "Can I speak with you privately, sir?"

"What's on your mind, Newkirk?" Hogan asked once the two were seated at the table in the common room.

"It's about that package. The one you got from Hastings."

"Seems something about the package bothered you," Hogan stated.

"Well, it's a coincidence, you see. I've got me own history with Hastings, and Mr. Foyle as well." Newkirk then proceeded to explain the connection.

"Thanks for letting me know, Newkirk," Hogan said. The connection was never spoken of again.

As to Foyle, Milner and Sam; they fervently followed Foyle's adage that he didn't believe in coincidence. Nothing more was said of Luft Stalag 13. The arrestee project was continued and completed. Nothing came of it. Foyle's superiors thanked him for his efforts and filed the information away in a drawer.

Alfie Burke was released from prison on request of the SOE. He assisted the operatives at Luft Stalag 13 with a mission, and was safely returned to England. He was given a pension and a warning, and he remained straight for the rest of his life.

**May 1945**

Foyle was again seated at the bench by the pier. This time, the area was lively and crowded with pedestrians. The pier was still closed; but now that the war was over, workmen were on site, clearing the beach and rebuilding the area. Soon, Foyle hoped, vacationers would once again visit his town.

He spied his contact heading his way. The man was tall, but clearly thinner than the last time they met. He stood up and waited. "Colone Hogan, it's great to see you. Glad you made it out."

They shook hands.

"Good to see you, too. I had a few extra days in between my debriefing and ship home. More like a few weeks, actually. How is everyone?"

"Well," Foyle answered. "I'm glad you received some of our letters and packages."

"We did. Thank you. It meant a lot for morale. I know some went missing."

Foyle suspected there was more to Hogan's captivity than he let on. "I'm sure you know your group here left."

"I heard they were all transferred," Hogan replied. He felt this meeting was a bit awkward. This was not unusual. Many of his recent reunions were the same. People did not know how to react or what to say. It was often an uncomfortable dance.

"Do you believe in kismet?" Foyle asked.

"Not usually, no."

Foyle nodded. "I hope a certain man was an asset."

Hogan smiled. "You know, I have a craving for some fish and chips. My treat."

Foyle stood up. "I will take you up on that." They walked in silence for a bit, finally entering a small shop on a street corner. After ordering, they left and ate outside.

"You didn't answer my question," Foyle stated as he wiped his chin.

"I have no answer." Hogan popped a chip in his mouth. "Life is full of coincidences."

"It is, indeed." Foyle finished the last scrap of fish, wadded up his paper and threw it away in a nearby garbage can. He waited while Hogan did the same.

"We all made it out," he said to Foyle quietly.

Foyle nodded. "That's one piece of good news I'll fall back on, considering." He felt that he played a small part in whatever went on in that camp. Would the true story ever be released? He had no clue. But, he did know enough to conclude a young man-a former petty crook- had contributed to their mission. And, at the end of a long, horrible war, he felt good about the small part he played.


End file.
